Bad Trip
by samchandler1986
Summary: Justine comes to Sam with a problem


He is in his dressing gown, typing furiously, when the knock comes. He opens the door to find his chief antagonist in the arms of his daughter; not a situation he's ever contemplated, even in his wildest nightmares.

"Sam?" gulps Justine. Not Dad. It's never Dad. He probably hasn't earned the moniker yet, to be fair.

He isn't about to start now. "What the fuck happened?"

"We don't know," says Justine. "We think she got… spiked."

"We? Who's _we_?"

"Uh, uh," gabbles Justine. Trying to weigh up the need for truth—given the circumstances—over not dropping her friends in the shit. And not dropping her friend. As she wrestles with her conscience he realises he doesn't care. That's the beauty of _not_ having earned Dad; he doesn't need to know and he doesn't need to lecture.

"You know what? It doesn't matter." He makes his decision. "Bring her inside."

He has to help, catching hold of Ruth's legs. They deposit her semi-conscious on his sofa. Her pupils are blown and she's sweating. "Ruth?" he tries. She blinks, but doesn't make a response. "Zoya?" Her eyelids flutter more at this.

Fucking great. This has all the hallmarks of a bad trip, and she's lost in the mind of faux-Russian megalomaniac.

"Is-is she going to be ok?"

" _I_ don't know," he snaps, "I'm not a doctor." He expects her to snarl back. Instead he looks up to see brown eyes filled with tears; a trembling lower lip. Why the fuck is he so bad at this? How much more obvious does she need to be with this father-daughter shit for him to pick up on it? "I mean," he says; too little, too late, "it looks like she's taken acid."

"I don't-I don't know what's that like," she admits. "I haven't taken it."

"Good," he manages, finally finding a paternal footing. She catches his smile. "Go and make some coffee," he instructs, before he can fuck this up again. He waves in the direction of his kitchen. "Black."

She nods, actually does as he says for once. She must be scared. He turns his attention back to the patient.

He hasn't taken LSD for years, probably decades. He's an _auteur_ , after all. It's trying to _stop_ his brain from painting dull reality in gaudy technicolour that's always been his problem. Well, that and trying to make those fevered dreams a visual reality, at least of late.

He kneels on the carpet next to her, ignoring a squeal of pain from his right knee. Fuck, when did _that_ start happening? He takes her clammy hand in his. How does this go again? "Ruth," he says. Not a twitch. "Zoya?"

She blinks again. Blue eyes made black by mydriasis. "I know I deserve zis," she mumbles, heavily accented, clearly terrified.

"No, Ruth, you don't. Listen, I know it doesn't look like it to you right now. But you're safe. You're with friends. And this will stop soon."

"No, no," she says, in her own voice. "Won't stop, never stop. I deserve-I deserve… I did things, bad things."

" _A_ bad thing. Twice."

"Debbie."

Oh, yes, he's been waiting for _that_ name to come up. "She isn't here, Ruth."

"She's everywhere. You put her… face into the walls."

"Just on the television. And your face too. Do you remember that part?"

Justine has returned with the coffee, hovering awkwardly on the threshold of the kitchen. "Uh," she manages.

"You can come in," he says. "And you can stay, if you want. It's just going to be this. At least for a while."

She nods, putting down the coffee to fetch cushions, a throw blanket. For him, he realises. So he can sit more comfortably at Ruth's side.

"Thanks."

She nods again, takes a gulping breath and scooches to take up station at the other arm of the sofa. How fucking weird this must look. There's two feet of clear space between them. That's where his life is right now; one of the few people left in it that actually seems to understand him catatonic on his sofa, and his own flesh and blood awkwardly crouched just out of touching distance. For which he has no one to blame but himself. _Jesus fuck._

"You've… done this a lot?" Justine asks.

He sighs. It's get to know your Daddy time. "No. I generally prefer to be the one _on_ the sofa. And, truthfully, acid was never my thing. Too messy. Blow was so much better."

She gives him a lopsided look. "So, if I'm going to try one…?"

"What, you want me to say I'll ground you? Suspend your allowance?" He shrugs. "You want to know where that road leads, look around you. Being high led to almost every one of the shitty decisions that got me here. You're an adult. You can make your own choices. Just, stay away from smack. That shit brings _nothing_ but grief."

She nods. "I'll bear that in mind."

The texture of the silence has changed. Less awkward now. Thank fuck. "What were you doing breaking curfew, anyway?" he tries.

"We weren't. We just went for a few beers. And then this happened."

"Right."

She shrugs, not caring for his scepticism. "What were _you_ doing?"

"Writing."

"A new film?"

He shakes his head. "I've been thinking about some behind the scenes segments for the first season. Help the audience get to know the characters."

"Like, location shooting?"

"Yeah. You want to help with that?"

Another shrug, poorly played off as ambivalence. "Maybe."

He smiles inwardly, knowing she's in. For now, that's more than enough.

* * *

She can smell cigarette smoke. And the world is dark behind closed eyes again.

"Where am I?" she says.

"You know that's a cliché."

She opens her eyes. The world looks normal enough, edges of the furniture reassuringly solid; no more trailing blur when she moves her head. She pushes herself up onto her elbows. "What?"

"No one really says that if they don't actually know. Trust me. They go straight to the screaming panic."

She makes an indignant sort of noise. "I guess the _smell_ was familiar," she returns.

He merely takes another drag in response. "How do you feel?"

"Tired. Headachey. More sane."

"You got spiked."

"Apparently." She finds a sitting position, working out the kinks in her spine from sleeping on the sofa.

"Do you remember it?"

"It's kind of a blur…" Certainly the first part. Later she remembers him talking – reading something maybe. She can't remember the words but she knows it was his voice. You stayed up with me, she doesn't say.

"Yeah. Try and keep it that way if I was you." He looks her up and down. "You wanna go get breakfast?"

Oh, I couldn't put you to that trouble. That's what she should say. The words are right there on the tip of her tongue. But really, how much more trouble is breakfast after a night talking her down from crawling terror?

"Yeah," she says. She can practically taste the bacon already. "Actually, that'd be great."


End file.
